


Early Morning Company

by scarredsodeep



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: All queers think oral sex is holy, Canon Compliant, Insomnia, Jetlag, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reading and Leeds Festivals, Reunion Sex, Rimming, Save Rock and Roll Tour, Smut, Tales from 2013, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 17:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15645204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/pseuds/scarredsodeep
Summary: Patrick, who has never had insomnia in his life, is too messed up on jetlag to sleep. He figures Pete's an expert insomniac, Pete will know what to do. Surely it's perfectly innocent to knock on his friend's door?





	Early Morning Company

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [@leyley09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leyley09/pseuds/leyley09) for naming this fic for me! Written for a lovely tumblr anon who gave me the prompt "insomnia." 
> 
> This was so much fun, thank you! My BBB almost fucking killed me and I've mostly been working on longer projects (*cough*girloutboy2*cough*), so it was an absolute joy to pump out something quick and sexy and fun. Seriously, send me your shorts prompts if you've got them.
> 
> And guys? Thank you so much for reading.

Patrick can’t sleep.

It’s not a problem he usually has: he’s a night owl, sure, but a necessary part of that lifestyle is the ability to fall asleep anytime, anyplace, within two minutes. He sleeps in airports, on every form of transportation, on benches in parks, in shopping malls, on living room floors, at meet and greets, in noisy arenas before shows… He’s infamous for it. Hat on, headphones in, Stump _out_.

Tonight it’s 4am in London, he’s eight kinds of jetlagged, and his hotel room has a connecting door with Pete’s. He’s tried drinking herbal tea, taking a warm bath, doing Youtube yoga, reading, watching the History Channel, listening to Enya, and staring at the ceiling counting out his breaths. He’s tried _everything_.

Every thing but one.

The thing is, Patrick is a novice at insomnia. It’s happened only once or twice before in his 29 years of life. Whereas: there’s an expert very probably lying awake right next door. It just makes _sense_ to knock. It has nothing to do with how horny Patrick’s been, how sexy Pete’s trashy leather pants + flannel combo is, the slightly sour familiar tour-smell of him, the way he kept kicking the toes of Patrick’s shoes and grinning today when they were sightseeing, the feeling of their thighs pressed together during their interviews this afternoon… None of that is even a factor.

The fact that they’re in Europe again, playing Reading, on a continent Patrick never imagined he’d set foot on again with this band, these friends… the memory of how he and Pete used to combat jet lag way back when, before the hiatus, when they were young and reckless enough to believe the two of them could do _anything_ casually with no strings… that they’ve fooled around three times already on this tour and it seems like Pete’s signalling he wants to do so again… Nope. Not factors.

Patrick just wants suggestions for how to fall asleep. He’s like a too-smart kid who never learned how to study. That’s all.

He knocks softly on the connecting door, resolving to himself that he will absolutely, 100% go to bed after three knocks if Pete doesn’t answer. But the door opens so fast he wonders if Pete was waiting for him, if Pete’s been standing on the other side debating about knocking too.

Pete is soft and rumpled in the grey non-light and shadow of the doorway. He looks comfier than anything in Patrick’s room, including the pile of pillows. His hair sticks up at all angles like his hands have been through it quite a few times tonight. He’s in boxers and a worn-soft, distressed tank that reads SUCK MY RICHARD, which instantly makes Patrick nostalgic for the long-ago lost version of healthy grown-up Pete Wentz, the Peter Pan of a boy who ironed on his own letters and made his own angry little t-shirts, lettered with inside jokes and/or self-loathing. Somewhere, Patrick still has one that reads WENTZ IS WHACK. A million years ago, he rubbed the letters with his fingertips til they lost their velvet cling. Patrick makes fists at his sides to help him stay strong in his resolution to keep his hands to himself. There’s no excuse at all to trace the letters on Pete’s tank tonight. They’re clearly not the velvet kind.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Pete says. Even at this hour, his mouth is quick to find the shape of his always-brilliant smile. His forehead crinkles, cheeks round. Patrick wants to smooth out every crease and line of him. No! No. Patrick just wants advice. Not dick: advice.

“I can’t sleep,” says Patrick.

“And you want in on my patented insomnia solution of watching British cartoons til it’s time to get up, and pretend coffee and ADHD are just as good as sleep?”

Pete gestures Patrick into the room, where the TV is, in fact, playing British children’s television. He crosses over to the bed and flops onto it easily, occupying space with a certainty and comfort Patrick has always envied. Sometimes Pete is one of the most self-possessed people Patrick’s ever met. Other times he’s a lunatic six year old. Patrick can’t always tell which.

“Is that a solution? Isn’t _actually sleeping_ the solution?” Patrick mumbles on his way in.

Between touring and the press circuit and filming Youngblood videos whenever they can scrape together enough time and cash at once and fiddling with demos that didn’t make the album and dreaming up new songs infused with the manic joy of their action-packed reunion—between all of this, there is blissfully little time to even sit and talk, let alone really think. In many ways this is essential: because if either of them really stopped to think about their relationship and what they are allowing themselves, out of unspoken habit, to slip back into…

Let’s just say things have always worked out best for Patrick and Pete when no one gets too hung up on thinking.

Patrick sets himself onto the very edge of Pete’s bed with care. He’s married now, something he’s been trying to remember. He’s married and things aren’t like they were. He fell in love with someone new while he believed he and Pete would never speak again, and it changed him. Really. He’s changed. He’s not going to do this bandmate tryst stuff anymore.

Although. What’s the difference, really, if it happens just _once_ more before they call it quits? If the very last time was two weeks ago, or if it’s tonight.

“Doesn’t television, like, disrupt the body’s natural production of melatonin or something?” Patrick asks. “Making it _harder_ to sleep?”

“If your body was naturally producing melatonin, you wouldn’t be here right now,” Pete points out. He flicks his gaze over to Patrick. “Unless you came over for some other reason?”

Patrick glues his eyeballs to the blue-light-producing TV screen without another word. It doesn’t matter that he’s looking away, he can _feel_ Pete’s smirk.

After a few minutes of cooperative silence, Pete rolls onto his side to face Patrick. “Hey, Rick?” he says, almost as if he’s innocent. Patrick doesn’t believe it for a second.

“Yes, Pete?”

“Remember what we used to do for jetlag?”

Patrick regards Pete out of the corner of his eye only. He doesn’t turn his head away from the TV. “What about it.”

“I just wondered if, _maybe,_ you coming over here was part of a scheme to… try the old cure again?”

Patrick does turn his head and look at Pete now. With great dignity he proclaims, “I have never schemed a scheme in my life.”

“Gotcha, gotcha,” Pete says, nodding. “Cool cool. In that case I’m sure you don’t mind if I…?” And he rolls _even closer_ , noodling his well-toned body so he can use Patrick’s thigh as a headrest and face the screen, his chin resting on Patrick’s calf.

Patrick’s pretty sure Pete can feel his femoral artery jumping against his cheek, that’s how hard blood is suddenly flowing in the region surrounding his groin. God, but Patrick had enough Pete Wentz problems before he thickened up, started working on these firm tan muscles, lifting weights and wearing tank tops. Patrick could barely handle the skinny eyeliner-wearing kid from Chicago; he’s not even remotely equipped to handle the Los Angeles-hot celebrity dad.

“Y’know, since you brought it up, it _was_ always a pretty effective cure,” Patrick says. The words just come out with an exhale, unbidden.

Pete rolls his head on Patrick’s thigh, turning onto his back and looking up at Patrick. Patrick’s throat emits a small involuntary groan. Pete’s eyes are clear brown and wicked. His tank top is twisted, a stretch of his toned stomach and attendant tattoos revealed. Before the hiatus, Pete didn’t have a tattoo Patrick hadn’t mapped entire with his tongue, tasting the outlines and memorizing the synethesic hum of every color. That’s not true anymore. In some ways, each of them has a whole new body.

“Patrick,” Pete murmurs, “your dick is poking me in the head.”

“Ugh!” Patrick rolls his eyes, wondering why he thought there’d ever be even a moment of soft romance with Pete Wentz in the equation, and goes to shove Pete’s head off his lap. Only Pete catches his wrist and holds on tight, and the feeling of struggling against Pete’s strong grip brings back a whole new wave of tactile memories. A wave, and its sucking undertow. Patrick holds his breath as a slurry of sensation drags at his skin, some of it dreamed and some of it remembered. His skin aches, wanting. His blood sparks under his skin. Rarely has he been so cognizant of himself as a creature wired for and animated with electricity.

Pete’s fingers dig into Patrick’s pulsepoint, where his heart races to spill itself into Pete’s hand. “Get off my lap if my dick is bothering you,” Patrick grates out, voice gone ragged somewhere around the time he stopped breathing.

Pete turns his face slow, slow, s l o w l y on Patrick’s thigh, turning it inwards towards the cotton-straining monster head of Patrick’s cock. He tilts his chin up so that when he speaks, his lips only _just_ brush the edge of it, the heat of his breath warming Patrick’s skin. “It’s not bothering me,” Pete whispers, almost-but-not-quite mouthing the thing. Then, with a long slow blink that he absolutely fucking knows is life-threateningly sexy, his tongue slips out and wets his lips.

At some point, the hand that Pete doesn’t have locked into place has made a fist out of the bedsheets. Patrick’s whole body is rigid with temporary sexual insanity. He is holding on for dear life. He tests if Pete will let him move his trapped hand. Tentatively, he moves it closer to Pete’s head, weaves his fingers into Pete’s hair, and makes a fist there too. Pete’s eyelids flutter and he presses into Patrick’s grip. Patrick tugs a little; Pete’s hand tightens on Patrick’s wrist, but his head moves. Patrick tugs again, and Pete’s mouth bumps against his cock.

Pete’s soft, slutty pout gets eaten up by that obnoxious shit-eating grin. The effect is totally ruined. “Can I help you with something?” Pete asks.

Patrick tugs his head again, this time shifting his hips with the motion. His dick slides against Pete’s grin and he says back, “I don’t know, _can_ you?”

Pete rolls his head, nuzzling against Patrick’s groin. Patrick barely lets him move and Pete keeps firm restraint on Patrick’s arm, locked in a feedback loop of struggle and control. Pete roots, nudging Patrick’s dick til he get the pajama-wrapped head of it in his mouth. He applies the smallest pressure and suction, the first hint of damp on cotton, letting Patrick for a fraction of a second feel what that sweet mouth can do, and then lets the dick fly out of his mouth again. His eyes shine with dazzle, his pupils enormous, and his smile is wobblier this time as he teases, “Oh, but I don’t want to keep you up.”

“I’m already _up_ ,” Patrick says through clenched teeth. They stare at each other, the challenge crackling in the air between them, and then they both move at once. Pete brings his other hand to grip the base of Patrick’s shaft at the same moment Patrick tugs Pete’s head up and bends, bringing his face crashing down into what is half-kiss, half-high-speed-facial-collision.

Patrick leans over belly-up Pete and they’re kissing, and there’s salt that could be sweat or could be busted-lip blood, and his cock is leaking while Pete’s squeezing it, and their mouths are moving too fast for them to figure it out. This, this is so much better than all the _quiet_ and the _thinking_. Before Patrick knows what’s really happening, Pete steers him by his dick to the edge of the bed, Pete’s not on his belly but on the floor on his knees. Patrick is bent like a flamingo to keep the contact between their mouths because fucking magma is in that kiss, lava and goddamn rock, it is a kiss to the core of the earth, it is a kiss that forms the poles of Patrick’s entire planet, it is tectonic, it is devastating, it is an eruption. And then there’s a brisk tug and Patrick’s bare ass is on the hotel sheets, his pajama bottoms are pooling around his ankles, and with a wet, dripping mouth and long obscene licks, Pete is taking Patrick deep into his slick-hot throat.

Patrick groans from his belly to his chest, his head tipping back to aim the sound at the ceiling, because it’s like his whole body lets go when he’s in this place, like Pete’s mouth around him is the universe’s one true sweet spot, like here more than anywhere the world makes _sense_. He’s surprised by the fit every time, by how true and right it feels, like fucking Pete Wentz’s face is what he was _made_ for. It feels better than sinning, because this isn’t something you’d need to confess: this is so obviously the work of divinity. _Forgive me, Father, for it has been three years since my last BJ from Pete Wentz. Can I get a high-five for this one though?_ All queer people know oral sex is holy.

Pete works him, tongue and suction and always just the barest, grazing threat of teeth. His fingernails bite the soft undersides of Patrick’s thighs, which he grips with bruising force. When Patrick knots his fingers through the messy hair on the back of Pete’s head, Pete’s eyes blink open slowly, and he looks up. They stare at each other, the sweetest look on Pete’s face while his head bobs, his lips smacking and shining, his tongue swirling visible and pink when Patrick presses on his head, when Patrick wants him to be sloppy. There’s only one thing Patrick would like more than this and Pete must know it, because suddenly and with no more warning than a deep swallow, Patrick’s dick pops free from Pete’s mouth.

Pete shows his teeth, breathing hard and rosy, and smiles beatifically at Patrick.

“I’m still wide awake,” Patrick complains immediately. His penis sways between them like a bright red compass needle, emphasizing his point.

Pete wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, casual and filthy in this precisely sensual way no one else has ever mastered. “Flip over,” he demands, voice hoarse. “Wanna taste you.”

Pete’s hands are strong on Patrick’s hips and Patrick lets out a squirmy whimper, moving and being moved. As soon as his wet dick hits the edge of the bed, stiff sheets hard mattress, his hips start to go. He rubs himself on the bed, his mouth open on the duvet and little groans of pleasure slipping out, til Pete’s fingernails bite into the only softness left of him, the padding at his waist. “Wait for me,” Pete orders, and Patrick’s hips obey. Pete spreads Patrick’s ass cheeks with a hand and makes a humming sound. Patrick squirms again, impatient, aware he’s being studied. That Pete is making eye contact with a part of his body almost no one has ever really looked at (including Patrick). There’s a wet pop and then Pete’s spit slick finger swipes over and around Patrick’s hole, which is enough to make him gasp and writhe just once against the edge of the bed.

“Filthy boy,” Pete laughs, tapping Patrick’s entrance with one cool wet fingertip, watching Patrick shudder in response. It’s all involuntary, at this point: Patrick’s entire self has melted down into this one raw electric-nerve reaction. “Can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Always been a slut for you, Pete,” Patrick manages. Spit pools out of his useless gasping mouth, shining on the duvet. He’s already a fucking mess. He’s always already a fucking mess. There was a reason he wasn’t doing this, some vague notion of morality, of being a better man. Now the situation is different. Now, if Pete doesn’t touch him again immediately, he will _die_. He _is_ a slut for Pete, for Pete only, and there’s a certain low thrill in saying it. Usually they say all the right things, don’t they? When journalist after journalist asks them questions about their partnership, their band, the hiatus, the coming back together. How it feels to work together again. About their relationship. It feels good to just say the truest, dirtiest, most natural thing, the kind of thing Patrick works so hard to avoid even _thinking_ , out loud. “Need you to fuck me.”

Pete feels like the glitter of glass in a gutter, not the sparkle of diamonds or the shine of wedding bands.

It’s glitter just the same.

The feel of Pete fitting his face into Patrick’s ass is so goddamn exquisite Patrick cries out. When Pete’s tongue presses against his entrance, a light arcing flick, Patrick experiences contentment down to the marrow, deep butter-gold and marbled with veins of red, it’s possible he enters an entirely new metaphysical plane. Pete licks in an unhurried way, curious and considered, like he’s sampling a new ice cream flavor and doesn’t care if it melts and runs sticky down his hands, coating him elbow to wrist in sugarslickstick—Patrick’s synesthesia is really getting going now, he’s seeing colors in bursts and chunks, he’s feeling them tingle all across his skin, the world is a sensation spiralling lavender and orange. Pete’s tongue dips into the hot dark interior of Patrick with a slow, mounting rhythm, some laps shallow and playful and others seeking and deep. A few times, he shakes his head back and forth, worrying at Patrick’s hole, widening and wetting him. Patrick begins to lose track of the rest of his body, Patrick melts or becomes vapor or dies, Patrick only exists where Pete’s touching him, Patrick is no more than a figment of Pete’s tongue. Patrick begins and ends in Pete’s mouth. Patrick _wants_ to begin and end in Pete’s mouth. No one has ever, ever eaten his ass like Pete does. It’s basically art.

Pete licks him wet and open and slow. Pete hums and laughs and exhales against him, vibrating through Patrick on a molecular level and disrupting everything it touches. Pete’s chin brushes the sensitive skin at the back of Patrick’s balls. Pete’s mouth stretches him, finds a deeper way in, finds some hard sweet spot that runs all the way through, that runs up the spinal cord, through the brain, out the top of the skull and straight to heaven. Pete licks and Pete tastes and Pete presses and Pete fucks. Pete, Pete. Pete.

Meanwhile, Patrick’s dick is so hard his brain is going numb. Two weeks ago he gave Pete an illicit handjob and licked his hand clean, and he thought, _I am so lucky_ and _this can never happen again_ at once, so it got all tangled up in his brain, all wrapped and twisted around the saltbitterthick taste of Pete’s come, so now all he can think is _I’m so lucky this is happening_ , he can’t think anything at all. Patrick is a glass globe filling up with sunlight, and his edges are diffusing, and soon he’ll be the sun, soon he’ll be nothing at all, soon he’ll—

Patrick comes, somewhere out of time, somewhere between Pete licking and Pete laughing. Patrick comes on the hotel duvet with an animal noise in his mouth. Pete licks through the spasms that ripple through Patrick’s interior, then emerges gasping. Patrick feels Pete’s teeth against his ass cheek when Pete rests his head a moment, catching his breath and chuckling in this self-satisfied way.

“That sound is exactly as good as I remember,” he murmurs. Just the sound and feel of his voice gives Patrick goosebumps.

“Want you inside of me, all of you,” Patrick stumbles, and this is an impressive mastery of language if you ask him, given his current condition. “Want you to come, want to feel and hear it, want—I want—”

Pete kisses Patrick’s ass cheek, comically loud. “Yeah?” He sounds so obnoxiously pleased. It is so obnoxiously sexy. “Next time.”

Patrick is so affronted, he overcomes sex paralysis and rolls over. “ _Next time_? I want you _now_.”

Pete, still fully clothed and on his knees, grazes his fingertips through the mess on Patrick’s glow-in-the-dark pale thighs and belly and blond pubic hair. He wiggles his fingers for Patrick to see in the television glow. “Looks like you had plenty you wanted,” he says. “We’ve been trading, haven’t we? First time you kissed my neck then ran away. Then I kissed you, got under your shirt—mmm, you look good with collarbone bruises, that hasn’t changed either—and then in NYC, you gave me an orgasm. Now tonight. We’re escalating, aren’t we? Like a trade. Next time is my turn.”

Patrick can’t decide if he wants to kiss Pete’s slobbery, shining face or flip him off. “Want you _now_ ,” he says again, stubborn and not too good to pout, if it helps his cause.

Pete walks closer on his knees, lifts up, and guides Patrick’s chin down to kiss him, chaste and sweet and fucking maddening with Patrick on his breath. “If I don’t leave us both wanting something,” Pete says, voice low and meeting Patrick’s eyes close-up, “how will I get you to come back for more?”  

Patrick opens his mouth and closes it again. Actually, that’s a pretty good strategy. The further he gets from orgasm, from that wild orchid flush of brilliant light, that full-body electrocution of goddamn love, the more it starts to seem like a bad idea, to fuck Pete all over again in all the ways that ended so badly last time.

Pete takes Patrick’s hand, interlaces their fingers. He kisses the back of Patrick’s knuckles one by one. The gesture is way too tender for the way they were fucking last time. Patrick doesn’t want to think about, let alone talk about, ways and reasons this might be different than last time.

“It’s real,” Pete says. God, Patrick wishes they were fucking and not having this perilous conversation. “No take-backs. We burned to ash and rose again, Rick. This is the second chance. I don’t need a third.”

“So you’re not gonna fuck me now,” Patrick says. It may or may not be a desperate last-minute bid to steer the conversation away from feelings and into the safer territory of sex.

“Correct.”

“But it’s because you want to fuck me later?”

“And after that, and after that, and after that. Yeah, pretty much.”

Pete’s eyes are too pretty and honest and clear for Patrick to deal with, now or ever. He has the sinking feeling that Pete is going to keep being exactly as honest as Patrick lets him. Patrick closes his eyes and flops backwards onto the bed. “ _Fine_ ,” he says, and he’s glad he’s facing the ceiling so Pete can’t see his smile. Pete flops next to him a few moments later, and without looking or speaking, their hands find each other again and link up.

“I said I’d never miss you,” Patrick grumbles. Because fuck. He missed this.

You don’t even have to look at Pete, after a certain number of years of knowing him, to know exactly which smile he has on his face. “I guess you never know.”

Silence settles between them, drifting slow and heavy to drape them in that soft, forgiving gloom that is the patron of any poor soul who still exists between late night and early morning. They might burn up at dawn’s first light, but until then they lie matched breath-to-breath, heartbeat-to-heartbeat.

Silence settles between them til Patrick complains, “I still can’t sleep.”

“Oh my _god_. I will smother you with a pillow til you pass out, will that help? If now you’re gonna keep _me_ awake—”

“I only came over here so you could give me, like, insomnia tips—”

“We both know that is an absolute lie, you came over here because you wanted _dick_ —”

“Which I am _leaving without getting_ —”

At some point, they’re laughing too hard to argue anymore. Pete curls onto his side, pillows his head on Patrick’s chest, and Patrick wraps an arm around him. “Can feel your heartbeat,” Pete says softly. “Not for the first time tonight either, if you get me.”

“Oh my god yourself.”

“Missed it. That’s all. Missed you.”

Patrick doesn’t say _I missed you too_. He did already: he wrote Miss Missing You. But he does stop complaining. He does let his eyes close. He feels Pete drift to sleep on his chest and thinks about heartbeats. He decides maybe he doesn’t mind insomnia so much, once in a while. Actually—he kinds of hopes he has it tomorrow night too.


End file.
